Stormspoken
by tempestuous
Summary: Thunder, fears, friendship, comfort. [Harry/Ron, Ron POV]


**Disclaimer:** If you haven't figured it out by now, none of us own these characters. But isn't it fun to play with them anyway? 

**Rating:** PG-13, maybe. 

**Spoilers:** Not explicit ones. 

**Author's Note:** Ah, Harry/Ron, my first fandom love. I feel like this piece doesn't really _sound_ like Ron...but I think I like it anyway, except for the abrupt change of tone at the end. I'm not crazy about the title. The story takes place in 5th year, although that doesn't really matter, and it may be the first of a series in which Harry and various characters have (probably slashy) dialogues somehow concerning the End of the World. Let me know what you think about this...because, as always, 

**Feedback** is the food of the gods. 

**Stormspoken**

He hadn't slept for days, because I'd heard him tossing and turning and seen the shadows under his eyes and the drag in his step. All of us slouched a little in the bleak grey light that had been filtering weakly into the windows since Tuesday. There were more yawns, more incomplete homework. Fewer games of Exploding Snap, fewer groups of people actually talking in the common room, instead everyone had been halfheartedly squabbling over the armchairs, over the right to collapse in front of the fire in listless lumps. 

We were all weary, but he was exhausted. 

He dozed off for a few moments over his History of Magic homework on Thursday, and I sat on my bed watching him on his for a bit, face practically still drawn in worry even in sleep. Then Seamus came in and dropped his bag, and that was the end, he started awake grabbing for his wand and coming up with a quill, noticed me noticing and looked sheepish, clearing his throat quietly and getting back to the textbook. 

Hermione tried to get him to talk about it, but it was no use asking. He just pushed his potatoes around his plate and said he was tired, that he missed Quidditch practice, that Snape had been giving too much homework. 

We didn't need to ask anyway. It was the war, the one we weren't fighting yet, the thing that sat like lead on everyone's tongue, that itched under our skin like nettles, that rattled around in our heads constantly like pebbles in a metal box. The war, the one he seemed to think he'd have to win all alone. I wanted to tell him that it wasn't true, that he was just a kid, that one jagged line between his furrowed brows didn't make him responsible for the whole world. It didn't help that in a way, in the back of my mind, I believed he was. 

On Saturday, the storm broke. 

There was still no light, but now there was energy. A crackling static in the air, the distant and then not-so-distant rumble of thunder and flash of lightning. The relentless sound of the rain beating against the roof, the windowpanes, the flagstones, the earth itself. 

To the rest of us, it was just another day cooped up, another day when the chills of the castle were amplified and your hands got stiff as you wrote, another day that the sun didn't shine in your window when you woke up. 

We were all restless, but he was coming apart at the seams. 

He gnawed the end of his quill to tatters. He threw out a five-foot roll of parchment six inches at a time trying to do some composition. He tugged the cuffs of his robes over his knuckles and scowled at them as they rode back over his wrists when he reached across the table. He gave up after a bit and just paced. The fireplace to the far wall and back again, weaving among the chairs. 

The rest of the common room pretended not to notice. Heroes were allowed their eccentricities. 

I watched Hermione's fingers twitch with wanting to comfort him, . I followed her eyes following him, and my whole being twitched with wanting to comfort them both. Suddenly, the path of his pacing took him up the stairs that led to the boys' dormitories, and she looked at me, her eyes speaking louder than the thunder that seemed to shake the castle: _Follow Him_. 

I'd been leaving before her eyes met mine. 

He was sitting on his bed, curtains open, eyes in the direction of the window but not really focused on it. He heard me come in, and his head snapped forward, but his eyes weren't focused on me, either. 

"This storm has a pulse," he said, voice flat. 

I crossed the room to him, sat down on the edge of the bed, craning my head down so that he almost had to look at me. He avoided it anyway. 

"Does it hurt?" I asked, indicating his forehead, almost touching him but not daring. Almost afraid I'd feel the lightning crackle through him. 

He shook his head. "No," he said, elaborating after a moment. "It doesn't. I almost wish it would, just so I'd know." 

"Know what?" 

"Anything." 

I looked at him, shoulders hunched, robes pooled about his hips and eyes focused on the worn knees of his jeans. Hands clenching opposite elbows, pale wrists poking out from his sleeves. Face drawn, sad, lost, helpless. And I knew I could finally say it. 

"Harry," I started, and he looked up at me, eyebrows raised, and the scar moving with them, not some sacred symbol or remote rune, but just a part of his skin. "It's not up to you. This whole thing, it's not your fault and it's not your responsibility. You may have to play a part, but not every part. I know telling you to not worry would be pointless, but...don't worry so much. It hurts to see you like this." 

I carefully didn't look at him, scared of what I'd just said. I watched my shoes, his hands on his knees. The silent moment was broken by a rumble of thunder, and suddenly one of his hands reached forward and grabbed one of mine. 

"Ron," he said, and I looked at him. "If this is the end of the world, I'm glad it's you. Here with me, I mean." 

_It isn't the end of the world_, I almost said. But our eyes met and I saw it written all over them, as clear as if they were parchment. _What if it is?_ And I understood that to him, every moment could be the end of the world, and that every moment could suddenly mean that all the things you'd wanted to say would be left forever unsaid, and I saw how much it meant that he wanted it to be me, the moment that it all started falling down around his slumping shoulders, he wanted me to be holding his hand. I _was_ holding his hand. I swallowed. 

"I'm glad it's me, too. Here with you." 

He leaned forward. I leaned forward. Our lips met somehow, and if the world had collapsed on top of my head that moment, I wouldn't have noticed. His mouth was warm and soft, his arm found its way around my neck as mine wrapped around his back. His knees were jabbing into my chest. Our lips moved tentatively, almost chastely against each other. We pulled back, looked at each other, his eyes were only half open. I moved my hand up to his hair, trying in vain to smooth bits of it. My face must have showed my disbelief at its determination to stay messy, and he smiled. I hadn't seen him smile for days. 

"It's no use," he said, and I smiled back, brushing my fingers across his cheek. He closed his eyes, smile still on his lips, and he yawned. 

"You need some sleep," I told him, nudging him to stand up and pulling back the blankets so he could get under them. 

"Only if you stay," he said, snuggling under the covers and indicating the spot next to him. He blushed. 

I blushed. "Alright," I said, walking around to the other side of the bed and getting under the covers. He molded his body into mine, head resting on my chest, arm tucked securely around my ribs. I embraced him with both arms, and he sighed, face actually relaxed. 

After a few minutes, he fell asleep, breathing deep and even, body warm and heavy as it overlapping with mine. 

He didn't even stir when the last rumbles of thunder sounded, muffled and sleepy, drifting away on the wind. 

The storm was passing. 

_another night slips away  
in other words i should say   
there are no words he should say  
there are no words _

in his eyes i see the fear   
that only time could disappear  
if only time could re-appear   
now's the time 

(Ben Kweller, "In Other Words") 


End file.
